To Love a Monster
by littledarkangelhippie
Summary: All he'd ever wanted was her acceptance, out of everyone in the world, and all because she reminded him of a person who had tried to hurt him so long ago, the only person he had ever trusted. She didn't know if she could give him what he wanted, but she'd be damned if she wasn't willing to try.
1. Accept the Past

**A.N.****: There will be two of these stories, the first with, obviously, Gaara and Sakura, and the second with Naruto and Hinata. ****_This_ one will probably only have two chapters, but, if it doesn't, it won't exceed three or four. Respectively, the Naruto and Hinata one will be completely separate and will have a similar name, only a little less...direct (I should say?) and you guys can go read it after I finish this one, probably. **

**This deals with the doubts Sakura has and the hesitation she has toward accepting Gaara's transformation. It's after Naruto's fight with him, after he decides to change, and kind of skims through his progress, mostly focusing on Sakura's troubling thoughts. I imagined she had felt scared after his previous attack on her village and was unwilling to forget the things he did, and how frightening he'd been. This is actually pretty short, and I think all of the chapters following will be like it, and her layout is a little confusing, but I hope you'll pull through.**

**A similar story I wrote is called "If He Just Hadn't existed", and this kind of stems from that. But this is, of course, a little slower.**

**You'll notice Naruto will be a big part of it, and that's only because of the bond they share between the three of them—Sakura being his teammate and Gaara being a jinchuuriki—and that he'll be mentioned every now and again as Sakura makes a connection between them.**

**Disclaimer****: I do not own **_**Naruto.**_

**Accept the Past **

It was the thought of being near him that scared her the most.

There was something slithering beneath the surface of that placid mask of his, something glaring back at her through his cautious eyes, something inhuman and unnatural, and it made her shrink away in her fear, heart pounding in her chest and a cold feeling sinking in her stomach, trying her damnedest not to let him know how she truly felt.

He saw it, she knew that. His smooth brow would furrow and his pale eyes would tighten, looking away from her and letting the silence stretch thin between them, letting her guilt settle deeper within her mind, uncomfortable and strained as they would always seem to be.

He'd changed, and she was well aware of that.

It was there in the way he spoke, his raspy voice softer, calmer, and his hands relaxed at his sides, not clenched into angry fists or twitching with his madness, his hunger for death and destruction. It was there in his gaze, staring with something akin to kindness rather than the deep and unbiased hatred he'd felt before, blistering hotter than the desert sun he had been born under, where he had been shaped into the weapon he was always meant to be and hadn't wanted to be. It was there in his words and there in his faint, uncertain smiles.

It was there in his soul, and she could see it clearly.

But his presence still sent a shot of anxiety down her spine, and his gaze still made her want to run and hide somewhere he could never see her, where his sand could never reach her, and his pain could never touch her.

And he could see it, clear as day.

He knew she felt that way and he neither confronted her about it nor appeased her worries. He let her feel that way and she didn't understand why. Did it not hurt him to know that she still did not trust him? Did it not sadden him to know she perhaps never would?

He neither showed it nor spoke of it.

~~...~~*~~...~~

When he visited Konoha, he always visited Naruto, and that, inadvertently, put him near her.

Many of her comrades welcomed the change openly, asking him questions and smiling nicely at him, offering only their curiosity and their friendship. They learned to accept the change because Naruto accepted it, and if he was anything like Naruto, then they could like him, too. Because they both lived the same life, they both felt the same grief, and yet their paths were so different, and all because he had never felt the sweetness of acceptance, of acknowledgment, like Naruto had.

And so they gave it to him.

But she could not bring herself to do the same thing. She could not look at him without remembering the way he had hurt her teammates, the way he had almost killed her, the way he had grinned so savagely and the way he had cackled so wickedly, enjoying the scent of despair in the air and the way they had all screamed and cried. She could not smile at him as they did and could not speak to them as they could.

She could not learn to accept him.

And in those sad eyes, both brilliant blue and pallid green, she saw how much it hurt them, mutually, because they understood each other so well, had lived so similarly it was almost as if they were one mind, and she could feel her heart begin to shrivel up and die within her, looking away quickly as she realized her cruelty.

Because how could she hurt Naruto like that? How could she hurt a changing boy like that?

He tried so hard to make her see him differently, tried so hard to make her understand him, was especially nice to her and refrained from ever touching her, lest he harm her in some way he did not mean to—although, of course, he never dared touch another living soul either way—and she knew he really did just want her to forget the past, the old him that was already fading away with each passing day, but they both knew she couldn't.

How could she forget the way his sand had crushed her ribs, her back scraping against the thick bark of a tree and her head snapping back hard enough to make the whole world go black instantly, and the way the boy she had loved so much had shouted in pain, terrified of a monster she could never bury away? How could she forget the terror he had spilled across her home, the nightmare he had brought upon her people?

He couldn't expect her to.

~~...~~*~~...~~

When Naruto went on his journey, promising to return stronger, he stopped visiting altogether.

She did not let out a breath of relief until she knew, absolutely and completely, that he would not walk through those green gates again.

The anger that followed her reaction was immediate, and she hated herself for not wanting him here. Because he had offered so much help to her home, and was solidifying the alliance between Konoha and Suna as he aimed to become their new leader. He was doing good things, respectable things.

He was changing, and she could see it so clearly it almost blurred with the past.

But she could not think of him without her heart wanting to jump right out of her chest, her stomach twisting up in terror and her mouth growing dry. She could not see him without the feeling of falling down a great abyss, sharp rocks at the bottom and no way of ever getting out, clawing and scratching and screaming for help. She could not be around him without wanting to cower away and curl up so tightly she would hurt everywhere, until he left.

And it hurt him, she knew, to know she would not, no matter what, let herself believe in him.

Really, all he wanted was to feel supported, to know he could look back and have someone, _anyone_, smiling encouragingly and telling him, "_You can do it_." And, for some reason, she had to be one of them.

She had to be that someone to push him toward great things.

~~...~~*~~...~~

Perhaps it was because he'd hurt her so much. Perhaps it was because he'd caused her so much pain.

She didn't _know _why he needed to have her forgiveness, but she didn't think she could give it to him.

Behind her eyelids she saw his maniacal grin, his sharp and perfectly white teeth, his coldly widened eyes and his sand whipping around him furiously (_as if it had a mind of its own_). And she could hear his horrible laughter, his excited panting, his maddened growls, as she tried to close her eyes to sleep (_for once in so long_). She could remember every last detail, to the very last sensation she had felt before her pathetic failure to protect the one she loved most, and the paranoia she felt for so many months afterward, looking around frantically at her shadowed room for his lithe, tense figure _somewhere_, watching her, hating her, preying upon her sanity, promising he would finish what he hadn't that day.

And she grit her teeth every time she heard of his progress, willing herself to feel happy for him, to want to congratulate him on his inevitable success, but she _couldn't_.

No matter how hard she forced herself to see him through different eyes, she could not force herself to erase what had been done.

~~...~~*~~...~~

It came to be one day, as she practiced out in an open field, that he finally visited her home.

She shouted and punched and yelled and bashed through rocks and throughout the empty clearing, sunset-tinted skies above her, sweating through her clothes, droplets flicking off the ends of her long and pale hair, and he was there, standing patiently beside the coverage of some trees, watching silently as she trained, vigorously trying to push herself harder, to become stronger, to keep her promise to herself (_I don't want to be weak anymore_). The way she skidded to a halt, sandals scraping against the dirt beneath her, air tearing through her ivory teeth, green eyes wide in disbelief, made him draw back for a moment, unsure of himself for once, before stepping out from beneath the long and heavy shade, making his way over to her slowly.

There was no threat in his green eyes, no semblance of his wrath, but she still felt her heart crash against her ribcage, her bones tremble deep within her, frozen in her place.

"I'm sorry," he said in his raspy voice as he came to a stop, a careful distance away, eyes trying to communicate his regrets and hands curled into the cloth of his pants, waiting as she caught her breath in the following silence.

And there were a million things he could've been sorry about, a million things to apologize for, but as she opened her mouth to ask which one, his hand raised and it snapped shut, her skin growing clammy immediately, trying so hard to keep in place and not hurt him anymore than she already had.

"I wish I could take it back," he murmured, hand stopping just before he could touch her shoulder, as if wanting to comfort her and yet knowing he couldn't. That was a dangerous wish. Almost as bad as her own.

For she wished, _so much_, that he would just leave. She could not handle his remorse as much as she thought she could. She could not take his well-intended sadness, his distressed and contrite expression, because it broke her image of him—that horrible image of psychotic smirks and brutal resentment—and it shattered all around her, seeing his eyes soften with his sorrow, as ever-present an entity there in his gaze as his demon that had drove him to the insanity that frightened her so.

She could only shut her eyes, could only clench her fists, could only bow her head, as she realized, with a jolt, that he was not who she thought he was. And he never would be again.

"I forgive you," she whispered, and her world fell down around her in violent crashes and spinning, erratic lies, a sigh leaving him as a weight was perhaps lifted off his shoulders.

~~...~~*~~...~~

When she heard of his success, she had sunk her teeth into her arm, shoving away the picture that threatened to attack her as his name was spoken, along with heavy praises and cheerful laughter. The picture of who he wasn't anymore, blood trickling down her arm in dark crimson strands of wrongful reluctance, flashed through her mind in spite of herself, and she squeezed her eyes shut in her misplaced misery.

They celebrated the fact that he had reached his goal, and spoke of how they hoped that Naruto would, one day, accomplish the same.

The alliance between Konoha and Suna was completely concrete now, thanks to him, and the support they offered one another was splendid and enviable, to any and all villages in the Shinobi World.

She could not find it in her to feel as festive as everyone else did.

And she did, for so long, search through herself for just the slightest bit of happiness for him.

She tore across the forest, miles outside of her village, smashing down trees and splintering trunks, breaking boulders and crying out in frustration and fury, yanking out full systems of roots and life and snapping in half whatever she could get her trembling and shaking hands on, sharp pinpricks wedging into her fingers and hissing in pain as she jerked her hands away quickly, only to kick right through the ground, letting the jutting rocks and earth slide and grind against one another.

Why couldn't she just be happy for him? Why couldn't she just accept him?

Was it really so hard to forget the one time he had struck so much fear within her?

Was it really so hard to turn her head from who he once was?

Why, why, _why _couldn't she just see the person he was now?

She didn't stop until she had passed out in a heap of exhaustion beside a river of icy water.

~~...~~*~~...~~

Why was she fighting for him?

Adrenaline pulsed through her veins as she slammed her fist into wood, shattering another puppet beneath her brute strength, flipping and shoving herself away before a poison covered sword could pierce her skin in retaliation. A split second of rest, just a moment to breathe the bloody air around her, and she was wrapping her hand around the nearest rigid wooden limb and spinning to crush one red-cloaked figure against another, ducking and running and evading whatever slash was aimed at her, purple liquid splattering across the scatterings of rocks around her, the wearing clothing upon her, the destruction she had caused in all her fiery and frenzied fury, pushing and pushing and pushing until she was left staring into emotionless dusty brown eyes, a perfect, immortal face, a sword sunken into her abdomen as whispery words were breathed into the air, and her body was shaking from the force of the poison, her anger, her rage, her confusion.

_Why _was she fighting for him?

The second she saw him, perhaps mere minutes later, she knew he was dead. It was the relaxed look upon his face, how smooth his brow was, how tranquil his body seemed, how peaceful he was in his stillness. All of his muscles were loose, she could see, and his auburn hair ruffled serenely in the gentle breeze that shook the very foundations of her own body. She pressed her practiced, uncovered fingers against his chest, over his gray vest and cold buckles, where no heart beat and no breath stirred, and waited and waited and waited until she could gather the strength to look up at Naruto, whose bright blue eyes burned with such pain, such anguish, such agony, such animosity toward the people who had done this, that she could feel it stab its way right through to her heart, and tell him what she had already known from the moment she saw him in that cave, seeing him for the first time in nearly a year, to shake her head silently because she could not bear to say it aloud and be the cause of the absolute tearing of his already wounded heart.

And he would understand, instantly, what she was trying to say.

That the boy who had shared an entire life time of sadness and loneliness with him, who had shared the same feeling of desperation and sorrow as him, was gone forever, and that he would never open those green eyes again.

And where she assumed she would feel relief, where she assumed she would feel happiness, where she assumed she would finally accept the way he had changed—_now _that he was gone and _now _that it was tangible—she felt despondence as deep as the abyss she may have fallen into some time ago already. And the ache that froze over her heart was as surprising as the tears that fell from her teammate's cobalt eyes.

Had he been alive, he may have been glad to see he was changing her mind about him. _Now_, after his untimely demise.

She did not smile at the thought.

~~...~~*~~...~~

**A.N.****: Took a whole night and I'm tired as hell, but there it is. I'll finish the next one tomorrow, I'm sure.**

**Tell me what you think and please review! I'm bad with stories, I know I am. -.-**


	2. Forget the Pain

**A.N.****: Yes, I promised this would be out sooner, but I'm becoming increasingly busy and I couldn't finish as quick as I thought I could.**

**So, I decided this will, indeed, extend to four chapters. This chapter is a little slower and less symbolic than the last one (at least by the end it is). But I hope you'll still like it. **

**This time, you'll face the beginning of the changing of Sakura's feelings toward him. She's rude to Gaara, but that's only because she's oblivious to her emotions, and a little unwilling to warm up to him.**

**Disclaimer****: I do not own ****_Naruto_.**

**Forget the Pain**

Her soul shook as she pressed her face against the curve of Chiyo's shoulder, the scent of already decaying skin, dry soil, drying sweat, and a musky perfume drenched deep into her cloaks. Her jaw was slack and her dark eyes were shut soundly, as if she truly were just sleeping. And as the sky darkened further and the crowds of shinobi surrounding them fell silent, one by one, she could feel the withered, paling flesh grow cold beneath her fingers, pressing uselessly against the point where her pulse should've been thrumming. The breeze that passed them by made her aware of the tears cooling against her cheeks, wetting her lashes and blurring her vision.

She did not bother to wipe them away.

The richly aged voice of Ebizo-jiisama resounded through her mind, tightening the icy wires around her heart, which had not stopped beating so hard since the first teardrop that fell from her teammate's eyes. His tone held no sadness, no sorrow, and it was in that moment that she realized, clutching the elderly woman's body closer to her, as if she could transfer her very soul into her as she had for a boy that had tried so hard to redeem himself, that the old man was actually happy for her.

The terrible things his older sister had done were not enough for him to wish a horrible fate for her. The things he had witnessed her do had not been enough to make him hate her.

"She looks so peaceful I keep thinking she's going to burst out laughing."

And she could only agree, squeezing her eyes shut and trying to figure out _why_ it hurt so much for her to lose someone she'd only just met the day before, throat constricting and heart squeezing so painfully.

She dared not look up, because his clear green eyes were still staring right at the shell that remained of Chiyo-baasama, disbelieving and shocked to his very core, unable to wrap his mind around the fact that somebody had given their life for him, that somebody had cared enough to bring him back into the world that had used to fear him so much.

For a moment or two, she wanted to tell him she did not hate him as much as he thought. But it was lost in the whisper of the wind across the field, dark green blades of grass brushing across her legs and a chill settling about her flesh as the woman in her arms became less and less _Chiyo-baasama_ and more and more just a corpse that would be locked away soon, beneath the earth forever.

~~...~~*~~...~~

His hand came up to touch her shoulder, just like that time from before, but stopped just shy of a few inches, long fingers curling inward and hand suspended in the air before he let it drop back to his side, turning his head away.

They stood before her grave, a simple clay-colored tombstone with her name engraved at the base. It was located deep within the cemetery, behind a wide arch-like entrance, where only the most honorable shinobi were buried. She, along with his father and the previous Kazekage, rested there.

Not a word is spoken until it is just the two of them remaining, staring down at the tombstone silently, something heavy falling between them. They mourned together, for different reasons, and yet ultimately for the same thing.

He offered no other comfort than his presence, but there was a shifting in her stomach that made the effort pointless. She wanted so much to thank him, give him the smile he deserved and tell him that it was because of him that Chiyo's will would live on past her death. It was because of him that she would never truly be gone.

But not a single word is spoken until the others are gone, leaving them to their mutual grief.

"I'm sorry," he finally said, the first thing he's said to her in nearly a year, sadness palpable in his voice, bowing his head and his hands clenched into fists. Truly he looked remorseful, hating himself to his very core and cursing himself for the loss.

She didn't respond, fingers twitching toward the headstone, wondering how it would feel to run the tips of them across the top of it, if the stone would be smooth or rough, if sand covered it as finely as it blew through the wind around them, through her hair and across her bare skin, arms and legs and cheeks and throat, over her lips and along her forehead.

She wondered if he could feel it, if he was the reason why the grains caressed her so softly, and shuddered at the thought.

"If I had only been stronger, this wouldn't have happened," he murmured to her, the wind carrying his words to her gently. He smiled ruefully, and she tried not to see it, turning her eyes away quickly and shoving aside the anxiety eating away at her stomach. "I wish I could take it back."

She kind of wanted to smile, nostalgia filling her bitterly.

_Dangerous wish_.

"Chiyo-baasama did it because she wanted to. She knew you tried your best and that's all that mattered to her," was her reply.

She realized, later that day, that she had, instead, comforted Gaara.

She had accepted him, if only for a second.

~~...~~*~~...~~

"Kazekage-sama," was how she acknowledged him.

Detached, impersonal, and coldly polite.

Not because she wanted to hurt his feelings, and not because she wanted to remain distant, but because she didn't think she had the honor of calling him by his given name, the way everyone else did.

For so long she had avoided ever speaking to him, ever looking at him, ever touching him, and had only done so when it was absolutely necessary. And he knew that. Somehow, he had always known that.

When she speaks to him, he would smile. A pleasant smile that showed her how happy he was to know she saw him as a person, too (what he didn't know was that she'd _always _seen him as a person, but that couldn't explain her fear of him). As they parted ways, with his siblings flanking him the way only body guards would, he made sure to meet her eyes, watching him as he shook hands with Naruto in farewell, and offered her a faint nod in goodbye.

It could've been in thanks for her aid in his retrieval, in his revival, in his rebirth, or it could've been a simple sign of his appreciation of her mere presence. She didn't know, but it caused a violent feeling inside of her, and she had to turn away before she could do something she would regret, like shatter the walls around his precious home that had awaited his return for so long, or tear down the happiness he had finally built around himself, or tackle him down to the ground like she so suddenly wanted to.

Confusing thoughts. Dangerous thoughts. Scary thoughts.

And as impulsive as she was, inevitable thoughts.

She followed her comrades as they walked away, and could feel his gaze trailing after her as she did.

~~...~~*~~...~~

A letter is sent to her Master personally, and it became a critical situation for Konoha to know that Suna did not have medics for all the mayhem beginning to center around the Five Great Nations. And, as ruthless and stubborn as Suna shinobi were, they were already in dire need of assistance and had only thought to ask for help when it became too much to handle alone.

Of course, only their best medic is sent, with a group of four other subordinates to help teach whatever shinobi was willing to learn.

It was three days of travel before they arrived at the opening of Sunagakure, lines of Chunin going about their business protecting the perimeters watching them enter solemnly. She refused to rest even though she was, in fact, very exhausted, and requested to be taken directly to the hospital to treat those wounded from their missions.

She didn't want to admit it to herself, but it was more because she did not want to see him than her need to help others.

And as she went about the mechanics of healing, moving her hands over deep scars or shallow cuts, dark bruises or bleeding gashes, she reveled in the cold scent of medicine and disinfectant, cleaning chemicals and crisp sheets. Her mind is blank save for the endless lists she'd memorized, telling her how to remove glass from wounds and how to stitch this or that, how to mend a broken rib and which vein to sink a needle in to inject morphine to anesthetize a human.

Really, she became more methodical when she slipped into this state, letting her body do the work she had been trained to do since she was thirteen and working away all the ache she knew her comrades were feeling.

Practiced, quick, and efficient, and so distracted by her duties that she did not notice him, watching her with curious eyes, soaking in all of her actions like a sponge, awed by how easily the wounds that had been on his shinobi were fading away and how fast she moved from patient to patient, never letting her fatigue show until they had all been filed out to rest before being sent back home to prepare for their next mission.

She wiped the back of her hand across her brow and sighed, letting her muscles relax and her fingers stretch, and turned to find him by the doorway, pallid eyes puzzled and intrigued.

She stopped herself from shouting in her shock.

"What?" she demanded when he did not say a word.

He pushed away from the doorway as she walked forward, slipping past him quickly. Trying so hard not to let him see how much it bothered her to have him so near.

"You have become a wonderful shinobi," he said, and she paused in her retreat, turning to look at him, unsure whether she'd heard him right.

The simple smile he gave caused a pain to shoot through her, more excruciating than anything his men had felt before she'd healed them, spinning and hurrying away without a single explanation, leaving him confounded and worried where he was.

~~...~~*~~...~~

The temporary apartment was near the hospital, and she roamed about its short halls and rooms before sinking into a hot bath in the bathroom, curling her legs up and sliding down until the steaming water licked the bottom of her chin. Her hands came up to look at, dripping clear droplets down onto her chest and cheeks, fingers trembling slightly, before folding them over her stomach and sighing deeply, shutting her eyes.

Her heart continued to hammer in her chest, thumping against her ribs, a light feeling in her bones and yet a heaviness in her stomach.

She briefly wondered how he felt knowing she would continue to avoid him

It would be difficult, because this was his village after all. And it was her job now to teach his shinobi her abilities, so she didn't know how she would manage. Her mind formulated plans, routes, to keep away from him as best as possible, turning her gaze to the ceiling where small cracks resided, marring the smoothness that would've been.

And then she grit her teeth, realizing what she was doing.

Running away from her problems, like the coward she used to be.

She had been taught better than that.

Slowly, she sunk deeper into the water until she was completely submerged, shame and self disgust filling her to the brim.

~~...~~*~~...~~

It was perhaps five hours of actual sleep before she ripped the sheets away and sat up, placing her feet flat against the ground and a cold sweat rolling down her skin.

It was a nightmare that tore her from her much needed slumber, and it spun through her bloodstream in icy fear in the remnants of the images she'd last seen, air tearing into her lungs and her world spinning like a top around her head before she shut her eyes.

And it was clear as day.

Hard and glowing pale green eyes and a psychotic, sharp-toothed grin, panting and laughing maniacally, as if it were all a joke. Whipping tendrils of pale sand and disfigured, veined arms reaching out for her, clawing the air for her. Wild streams of wind slashing against her flesh and tearing across her face, a familiar cry reaching her and a horrible cackle surrounding her, breaking her, shattering her.

And the guilt was reinforced.

"I shouldn't be scared anymore," she whispered to the darkness around her.

The demon was no longer inside him. She was safe around him now. He would not hurt her anymore. There was nothing in him now that promised her any harm. Safety, perhaps. Comfort, maybe. But no pain. Not anymore.

And yet there it was, as luminous as the moonlight tumbling through the parted curtains into the small room, casting a milky, translucent skirt across the floorboards. There it glared, thin white lips curling back and baring its fangs to her, eyes turning to sickly gold and black, and a tail swishing behind him, blood lust so thick around her, closing in on her, suffocating her.

And then the memory of his kind smile, gentle green eyes and soft spoken words, hoping, silently, that she would accept him. That she would believe in him.

That she would forgive him.

She passed out in the corner of the bed, clutching the sheets to her tightly.

~~...~~*~~...~~

Her back hurt.

She stretched and it popped, a line of faint cracks, and she sighed in something almost like relief, turning her eyes back to the groups assembled before her.

Mostly women, as always, hoping to be of assistance to their teams where they couldn't pass in brute strength. Some men who had seen their fair share of death, grimly staring back at her and waiting for her orders. And then a handful of young Genin, looking to get ahead of their teammates. Not too bad, considering how many there were, compared to how many people had been wounded the day before.

Her first command was for them to balance their chakra. Control was key, and she knew that better than anyone.

As her subordinates hurried to check their progress, giving pointers and helpful tips, she rolled her head back to look at the sky. The sun was blinding and blistering now, the sky painfully clear and bright blue.

She had not run into him all day, which was a feat she had not expected to accomplish so easily. She had no time to move around, avoiding him. She had things to do, people to teach, lives to save. Her fears might've been a prominent being in her mind every day, but she would not let them get in the way of her work.

That is, unless he suddenly decided to visit while in the middle of it.

His presence was smothering, standing their beside her as if he had the right to (and he did, but she couldn't admit that), watching his shinobi training hard, following whatever order her subordinates shouted, eyes pensive and lips pressed together in a line.

Her hands curled at her sides into tight fists, swallowing down her apprehension, forcing a smile as a kunoichi managed to close the wound of a volunteer, cheering with a friend beside her before she was moved along to the next task.

She idly wondered if he'd ever seen his shinobi pushed like this, and then shook her head at the thought. With a leader like him and those siblings of his, of _course _his men had been pushed like this before. If not more so. Ruthless teachings and rigorous practice would not go away so easily with a family like _that_ in charge.

She could almost ignore it, the fact that he was there, nodding to herself as the procession went along smoothly, but it became difficult when he turned his gaze to her, green eyes brighter in the sun. The wind picked up and the sand in the air tickled her cheeks, and she almost asked aloud if it was him who did it, even though it would've taken a lot of effort to make it spread across the entire village like it seemed to.

"You are an excellent teacher," he complimented, and the feeling that twisted within her stomach alarmed her, tight and warm and unexpected.

She stepped away, turning to join her team in guiding the students. "Thank you," she grounded out as politely as she could, and left him once more to move to a struggling kunoichi, kindly showing her the proper way to hold her hands.

He might've been hurt, again, by her coldness, but she did not think she could stand there any longer.

The way her heart had flown right out of her chest had scared her too much.

~~...~~*~~...~~

**A.N.****: There we go. Next chapter will focus on Gaara's feelings. So, switching to his perspective about things.**

**Please review, and thanks for reading. **


	3. Be Understanding

**A.N.****: I truly do love writing in Gaara's perspective. And I have no idea why.**

**This time, you'll be facing Gaara's feelings. And he is much more insightful. Maybe because he's been dealing with a lot of crap his whole life. Or maybe because he just has a deeper understanding of things. I don't know. **

**This ends sweeter and I think you'll like it.**

**Disclaimer****: I do not own ****_Naruto._**

**Be Understanding**

The moment he stepped through the doorway, he knew he would not rest.

Home had become a new sanctuary for him, after mountains of paperwork and tedious meetings, after relentless negotiations and fretting over his people—a new worry that he had formed, after so many attacks from clueless enemies that did not realize his power just yet—and after wandering about the streets of his village, checking the progress of his shinobi and making sure everything was in order. Home was a place he could escape to, where he could shed his cloaks and stretch freely without being watched too closely, where he could yawn openly and lightly complain about his work, where he could relax and let himself be soothed by intricately cooked meals and the familiar bickering of his siblings around him.

Home was a place he could feel safe.

Home was a place he could rest.

But the moment he passed through the threshold of his home, rubbing the muscles at the back of his neck and stifling a yawn behind his hand, there stood the very object that had become the center of his worries, waiting for him in the middle of his living room, hands folded politely behind her and emerald eyes meeting his slowly, unwillingly.

He could not count the amount of times he had wished they could meet in private, the amount of times he had wished he could speak to her alone. He could not even begin to explain to her how relieved he was to see her, and how deeply he wanted to apologize to her—but for what, he could not say. He felt at blame for the way she ran away, for the way she distanced herself so quickly from him. He felt it was his fault that she could not seem to be around him for any amount of time.

He figured it was all his fault to begin with.

It wasn't, and they certainly both knew that—if the guilty look in her expressive eyes meant anything—but he _felt _that it was.

He did not move a step forward, frozen in his place as she seemed to be in hers.

Waiting..._but for what_?

Neither said a word, and yet more was communicated in their silence than he could comprehend, brow furrowing and a confused frown pulling at the ends of his lips slightly.

What had she come here for? What did she want?

She didn't know, and he could see that plainly.

She was every bit as bewildered at her actions as he. If not more.

The moment was broken as a hand fell heavily on his shoulder, his older brother's deep voice rumbling beside him as he greeted him tiredly—back from a mission at last, and he had wanted to be the first to welcome him back, having missed his older brother more than he would've liked to admit to anyone—and giving him a friendly shake before moving past him. He was pulled back into a hug, a warm embrace by his sister, her strong arm wrapped around his shoulder as she murmured, "Welcome back. I brought takeout this time. Too tired to cook."

And as he was released, he noticed his brother had already stepped toward the girl he had, for so long, wanted to talk to, to reassure, to comfort, to befriend.

"Eh, Haruno-san?" Kankuro said, a question sounding a the end of his sentence, where it had not been intended to be at first.

"Here to join us?" Temari asked, already padding over to the kitchen, brown paper bags gathered up in her arms. "I did bring more than I was supposed to."

"Ah, no, that's alright. I'm not hungry." she replied quickly, holding up her hands and waving them a little, trying to placate his sister. But he knew, and his brother knew, that it was far too late for that.

"Nonsense. Stay." And that was that.

Not even a woman like her could argue against Temari.

~~...~~*~~...~~

Once the two kunoichi were distracted, talking about whatever it is women talk about—he could never know, because no matter how many times he had tried to eavesdrop on his sister and her friends, few and far between as they were, he could never understand what they were saying, and ended up with more questions than he had begun with—his brother caught him by the elbow and pulled him closer to him.

The paint had been cleaned off his face and his hoodie had been pushed back, freeing his wild chocolate-colored hair, and if he had to be honest, looking at his big brother now as he stared back so seriously, he looked too much much like their father, and it caused a pain in him he couldn't understand.

"Care to tell me why she's here?" Kankuro asked, softly so that they could not hear. He was not bothered by her presence—no, Kankuro didn't mind people, as long as they were respectful, and that was all that girl was, especially to them—he was more confused than anything. People never came to their home, no one ever trespassed in their sanctuary. Particularly women. (Temari was not past bringing a rare date to the house, but Kankuro scared them so much they always end up leaving early.)

"I don't know," he replied honestly. "She was here before I came home."

And then he let himself wonder how she entered, how she managed to get through without a single hint she'd been there, but shoved the thought away as he realized what a silly thought that was. She was an excellent kunoichi, a proper shinobi, and a regular house lock would certainly not keep her out. And he asked himself why they weren't more secure, and sighed as he realized they didn't _need _to be. Three powerful siblings was more than enough to protect their home.

He felt almost invaded, if he had to be truthful. An outsider in his home was always a cause for him to feel uneasy, bristling uncomfortably at their presence.

But this was a different feeling. This was a new feeling.

It was not because she was stepping into his home, his haven, that made him feel strange.

It was because it was _her_ at all.

He had not expected her to cross their line so easily, a line that had been set up so many years ago.

Kankuro watched him silently, his quiet turmoil, and a sudden and teasing smile crossed his face, dark brown eyes flashing. "I see," was all he said in response to the puzzled look his younger brother gave.

Before he could ask, something turning in his stomach, like panic or fear, Temari had broke out laughing, drawing both their attentions.

The hidden smile the girl had, masked behind her pink hair as she bowed her head, warmed something inside of him, and he wondered what she'd said that had made his older sister laugh so hard, a pleased gleam in her dark green eyes. A funny joke? A jesting comment? A sarcastic remark? He wanted to know, curiosity burning inside of him, tilting his head to look at her face a little better.

What he didn't notice was how the laughter tapered off, his sister eyeing him closely, and the glances exchanged between his siblings meaningfully.

If he had, he might've known why they left after their meal was over, pretending, openly, to be sleepy.

~~...~~*~~...~~

She asked to take a walk, and the fluttery feeling inside his stomach was inexplicable, his mind twitching to understand it.

And so they walked, out the front door and through the emptying streets, where paper lanterns had been strung up to add some semblance of happiness in the air, slowly dying away as the cold chill of desert nighttime picked up and his villagers hurried home to escape it.

He glanced at her, taking in her appearance for once (he wondered why he hadn't before). Beige elbow guards and high, black, toe-less boots. Black shorts that barely reached her knees, a red sleeveless shirt that zipped up the front—similar to her old outfit—a beige skirt that was made up of slits, two buckles on the sides, and black gloves that she stared at now, an incomprehensible look on her face.

(He wondered if she was cold.)

After a moment of silence, she pinched the tip of the middle finger of her right hand, pulling off the glove, flexing her hand and then pulling off the other, tucking them away in her pouch. "I shouldn't have been wearing these during dinner," she said, more to herself than him. "It's rude. But I forgot I had them on."

Her steps were loud when compared to his, scraping against the sand beneath them, blown in from the desert outside those walls, her heels _clicking _against the pavement and echoing softly against the houses around them. No one would hear her, her sounds muffled and her voice faint, but he idly wondered if she noticed, too, how quietly he moved despite there being no need to. Years of teaching himself to be stealthy, stealthier than anyone else in his village, he was sure, had made him accustomed to regularly moving like that.

Even though he had promised he'd changed, he'd ultimately hadn't.

In all the ways that should've mattered, he'd changed.

(He didn't kill, he didn't harm, he didn't threaten anyone. He didn't think, he didn't plan, he didn't _want_ to harm anyone. He slept, he smiled, he ate; he was human, _finally_, like everyone else.)

But the smallest things would matter to her, wouldn't they? And he hated how loud she was and how he couldn't be.

He hated how _normal _she was and how he would never be.

He didn't hate her. He _couldn't_ hate her. Even if she was the only one that refused to see him differently—and, _God_, he wished she would—he could not bring himself to hate her.

Because when he remembered that face she'd made, those _eyes_ she'd had, protecting the one she loved, protecting a _friend_, he remembered his uncle. Not the bad uncle, the one who'd tried to kill him. The good uncle, the one who'd comforted him, the who'd saved that child from being hurt by him. And that tore at his heart in ways he did not understand but in ways he wanted to, one day.

When he looked at her, he felt things that didn't make sense. He _wanted _her to accept him. He _wanted _her to see him. He _wanted _her to _look _at him, and _not _see the monster he used to be.

He wanted to prove to her he wasn't a monster anymore.

He wanted to show her he was human, too.

"Thank you," he said, trying to push away the emotions that had attempted to overcome him. "My people will rest easy now knowing we're in good hands with you."

Her eyes met his, green as stained windows and glass bottles, tinkling in the breeze where they were hung up by children in his childhood, watching wistfully as they sang to him, and a warm feeling tickled his heart before she looked away.

A cold feeling followed quickly and he grit his teeth against the sensation, stopping himself from telling her—_begging _her—not to look away from him.

"It's nothing," she said. "Our villages are allies. It's the right thing to do."

_But not what you want to do_, he thought, lowering his eyes. _Not with _me_ here_.

Another silence stretched between them as they passed under a street lamp, a pool of yellow light on the darkened street, illuminating her brightly for just a moment before they were dark again. He wondered if she'd heard his thoughts, and immediately wanted to take them back.

Would they hurt her feelings? Would they sadden her?

He really hoped not.

"I wanted to apologize," she said suddenly, coming a stop at a corner, making him halt altogether, mentally, physically, and emotionally. Frozen in place like before, mind blank and heart still. Anticipating..._something_.

He just didn't know what.

"I was rude," she muttered, clenching her hands into fists and looking down solemnly. "I kept running away from you and I shouldn't have."

So they were acknowledging it now. He had figured they wouldn't, noting how reluctant she was to even speak to him, how much she wanted to run, even now. Such strength she had, to face her fears head on like this.

It was saddening, really, knowing that _he _was her fear.

"It's quite alright," he reassured, although a pain pierced his heart and something horrible coiled in his stomach. Was it the knowledge that she knew he was her fear or the fact that she admitted it? Or was it because he'd really hoped she would, at last, tell him that she was not scared of him anymore.

He really wanted her to not be scared anymore.

"No," she snapped, taking a step forward, surprising him. "It's _not _alright. You are the Kazekage and you deserve nothing but respect. And I'm not giving you that."

There was a fire in her eyes, and it scalded him down to his very core. And he feared it. He feared _her_.

"Believe me," he mumbled, looking away. "You have."

He could see it. She wanted to run away. She wanted to get away from him. She wanted to escape. She wanted to hide so deep that he could never find her.

What she didn't know, and what he wouldn't tell her, was that he would rake the entire world just to find her. Even if it took forever. And that idea scared him more than she could ever know.

"Kazekage-sama—"

And, _God_, why did it hurt that she called him that? Why did it tear at him to hear her call him his official title? Why did he want his name to slip from her lips, reddening as she swiped her tongue across it quickly? Why did he want her to say his name so much?

The feeling that tumbled down across him was one he _did _know, and _he _wanted to run away.

He should not feel this way about her.

He should not want to run his hands down her body. He should not want to feel her skin. He should not want to kiss her.

He should not want her.

She caught his sleeve before he could take a step back, and his breath caught in his throat, surprised, again, by this girl.

Her green eyes—green as a childhood he'd wished he'd had, green as the leafs of her home during spring, green as the glass of a church window—burned into his very soul. "I will not treat you like that again. I will not run away from you again."

He had to get away before he did something to her, before he did something they'd both regret. He had to get away before he touched her. He had to. He had to.

And then a smile curved her suddenly inviting lips, one of determination and an unmovable resolve, and something sweet filled him inside so deeply he couldn't breathe for a second.

"I will not be afraid of you anymore."

There it was.

Too late to even stop.

There, sinking into his heart like blistering claws.

He loved her.

~~...~~*~~...~~

**A.N.****: He had originally only wanted to be friends with her, and was trying his hardest to make her like him enough. And his plan had taken a turn (for better or for worse?) and now he's stuck feeling like that. **

**Next chapter, and last one, sadly, will still be in his perspective. It's only fair. There were two Sakura chapters and only one of his.**

**Please review and I'll have that out soon enough.**


	4. Be Happy

**A.N.****: It's about time I finished this.**

**This chapter is longer than the last three and it covers the span of twenty days pretty quickly. There are some parts I don't like and others I do, but I like to keep an open mind and I hope you do, too. **

**Disclaimer****: I do not own ****_Naruto_.**

**Be Happy**

He counted down the days until she had to leave, numbers blurring in his mind as he went about the mundane tasks of finishing paperwork and attending meetings throughout his days. Repetition, a cycle he could not break; responding exactly the same and standing beside his beliefs as best he could while councilmen doubted him behind their coldly polite smiles. Quick promises he would die before breaking and a steadfast thought that perhaps he would never have to. Repetition.

Twenty days.

He found that the times he could escape his office, and the hallways of the Kazekage Building, were often the best. And the times that he could seek her out, walking down long streets and turning every few corners until he found the training grounds, were his absolute favorite.

Because she smiled at him—even if they were so slight they weren't really smiles. Even if she was only doing it because she was making herself do it. They brought relief to his nerves and made him sigh a heavy sigh he'd been locking within himself the whole day—a pressure accumulating at the back of his mind, cracking beneath the surface of some thin mask.

He could find peace in her presence, at least for a little while.

Nineteen days.

She ate at his home every other day, growing comfortable around his family and learning to understand their twisted and mostly cynical humor, offering small grins of reluctant mirth, hiding her laughter behind her hands and almost spitting out her water when his brother or sister made a particularly funny joke.

They liked her, too, it seemed, and the way they glanced at him, these looks of approval he couldn't quite understand, let him know they found her as charming as he did.

And it was nice to know she was accepted in his home. (Now he just wished he could be accepted in hers.)

Eighteen days.

She liked to watch him write, finishing his paperwork or creating documents to be saved away for a future Kazekage, leaning over his shoulder and reading as he wrote. Sometimes he heard her voice, softly mumbling the words near his ear. Sometimes he felt her breath, shifting the ends of his hair. Sometimes he felt her warmth, if she came near enough.

He liked it when she did come near, though. She smelled like flowers and innocence. And he breathed deeply when he could, a strange calm pulsing through his body and soothing his pounding heart, which didn't slow once in her presence.

Seventeen days.

At Temari's request, she taught him how to write in her special calligraphy. Lovely writing, smooth swirls of black ink against thin rice paper or thick parchment, and quick flicks of the wrist; delicate loops and careful curves.

(He would never tell her, but he sometimes messed up on purpose just so she could take his hand and show him herself.)

She spent hours with him in his kitchen, circling him and kindly reminding him how to do this or that, and nodding her satisfaction when he did something the right way.

(He really just wanted her to be proud of him.)

Sixteen days.

~~...~~*~~...~~

He hardly had any sleep when the birds began to sing outside his window, dragging him out from his dreams—dreams he knew right away would feature the very thing that had kept him awake for so long in the first place. He felt like he floated to the bathroom rather than walked, and he barely stripped off his clothes before he was standing in the tub and turning the knob silently.

The ice cold water that sprayed across him knocked him out of his sleep completely, and the air tore through his teeth, eyes widening and body jolting, before he quickly turned the knob until it was warm enough for him to proceed in his morning rituals, scrubbing soap into his skin and massaging shampoo into his hair, turning his face up toward the thrum of water and shutting his eyes against its beat.

It wasn't often he woke up with one, demanding and persistent as it was, but when he did, it was never like this.

Once a person got past all of the enigmas and horrors that made up who he once was and who he was now, it was very obvious he was still a regular human boy. Incredibly mature for his age, yes. More reserved than most, certainly. But a normal boy all the same.

And so it wasn't every day he woke up with one, but when he did, he could usually ignore them.

But not today.

And so there was a new task to be added to his morning ritual, if only for now, and it wasn't one he was particularly thrilled to get through. But he would not let it rule him over, not like this.

The reason for it was the same reason he could not sleep last night, and thoughts filled up his head and blurred his eyesight and made his heart skip and his breath quicken, a hand sliding down his chest as soap trailed down his skin in thin streams that spun down the drain in frothy swirls. They were thoughts he did not want, images he could not fight, and they attacked him all at once.

He bowed his head beneath the water, counting in his mind.

_How long do I have? _Work would demand his attention soon. He knew that. He couldn't spend so much time on something like this.

And then, _Am I allowed to do this_?

His hand was already stroking, slowly, awkwardly, because he wasn't the kind of person to do these things and he'd never had reason to before. His hand was calloused, wet because of the water, warm friction, and his eyes were closing, letting himself be over come, just like he hadn't wanted to be.

But, _I'm not supposed to be thinking about her like this..._

And in his mind, she was so very pretty, prettier than any girl he'd ever seen. In his mind, she is willing to be near him, she is willing to touch him—_and let me touch her—_and she is smiling at him. A soft smile, a gentle smile, her lips curling at the very edges and her eyes warming him to his very core, which burned now as he imagined—_just pretended—_that _she _was the one touching him like he was right then, that it was _her _hand wrapped around him, coaxing him toward fulfillment.

And it wasn't quite enough.

Guilt pooled within his stomach, mixing with his superficial pleasure, and his hand was too big to be hers, and his hand had callouses that hers didn't, and her words were faint and indistinct, and her kisses never quite reached him.

He knew right away that she would never do these things. She would never touch him—_she will never let me touch her—_and she would never smile at him like that, and she would never let him be so near her. She would never close the space between them and she would never say, softly in his ear so that he would shudder, "_I want you, too._"

Because she never says his name, and his mind can't provide him with that fantasy, and it breaks him down completely.

And so it wasn't quite enough—_because I'm not allowed to think of her like that_...

He finishes with a shaky sigh, deep within his chest, a different kind of warmth spilling across his hand, thicker than the water that washed it away from him, a different color than the ivory soap that he used to clean his body again—because he felt so dirty now—and his eyes are dark and cloudy as his body thrums with the aftermath of pleasure and a terrible string of guilt inside him gnarls at his heart.

"I'm sorry," he says to the emptiness around him, as if she could hear him.

And he really does mean it.

~~...~~*~~...~~

When he arrived later that day at the training grounds, she did not stiffen as he went to stand beside her, although he himself remained tense and still.

The relief that filled him was sweeter than sugar and hotter than fire.

(But would she notice the new way he looked at her? Would she hear his thoughts, silently pleading she forgive him and desperately hoping she does not see it?)

And as he opened his mouth to say, gently so that she would not be afraid, that he admired how easily she got his shinobi to work, how quickly she was changing his soldiers, she turned to him slowly, emerald eyes set and unwavering, and offered a slight and simple smile, nothing more than the slightest curve of her pink lips and the smallest wrinkling at the edges of her eyes.

It was more than enough to send his heart flying up to his throat and smothering his words right there.

And such a scary feeling that was, so foreign and unnatural, that he felt his mouth grow dry, his mind go blank, and his breath catch within his lungs, eyes wide and astonished.

How could he tell her he thought she was prettier than any girl he'd ever seen?

It did not come to him, the proper answer, even as they stood there, quietly observing the progress of his village, a progress toward something very much like peace, like he'd always wanted it to be—and all because of her, all because of the very person he could not stop thinking about, the person he'd objectified this morning in the shower... It did not come even as she moved away to guide helpless shinobi back on track, friendly reminders of how to properly do this or that, allowing him to finally breathe.

If he could gather enough bravery to tell her, just once, how much he liked her smile, would she do it more often?

He didn't know.

But he really hoped so.

~~...~~*~~...~~

She walked with him, quiet as the evening began to settle around them, letting herself fall into step beside him, relaxed, and yet with a tenseness settled between them, beneath the surface of a thin and shallow atmosphere. Something irksome underneath their wordless exchanges, glances between themselves and the beginnings of conversations dying on their lips as anxiety washed through them both. But she seemed determined to say something to him, even if she could not gather the proper courage to do so. And he was glad for that, immensely so.

He would speak if it meant keeping her around a little longer.

(Is that what love was? To always want to be beside someone?)

He watched her, from the corner of his pale eyes, looking around as children began to climb out of second story windows to hook colorful paper lanterns up, flicking little flames from their matchboxes to light them, the sky darkening to a soothing orange, which would turn to purple, and then to blue, and then to black; he knew that as well as the lines on the back of his hand. He merely smiled as an expression of wonder overtook her lovely features, mouth opening to gape and eyes widening to take in the sights more clearly.

He was glad she could find beauty in his dreary desert home.

He jumped, however, when her hand suddenly shot out and took his, a burning warmth wrapped around his fingers tightly, firmly, her palm searing against the undersides of his fingers (how could somebody be so warm?) and he turned his head to look down at her, shocked. "S—what's wrong?" he asked hesitantly.

His heart was pounding and he could hardly breathe. But he would not let her know that.

Then she would know and he couldn't take that.

"They're nice," she murmured, nodding up at the lanterns.

He looked up at them, even if he knew exactly how they'd look if he hadn't anyway, and was struck with an idea, his fingers finally twitching in her tight grasp, which loosened in her surprise, allowing him to curl them around hers properly. "May I show you something?" he asked, but his voice held no trace of the hope he felt. He attempted for casual and got something more like apathetic.

He didn't want that. He wanted her to know how much he really wanted her to see, even if just a little bit.

She blinked, and he caught the look of uncertainty that flashed in her glass green eyes, and his hoped ebbed some, just before she gave a tight-lipped smile. "Sure."

A smile was a smile, and any smile from her was the best kind of smile.

~~...~~*~~...~~

It was out near a cliff, atop the thick wall that surrounded his village, where they stopped walking. He heard her gasp, very softly, and felt a warm feeling pool in his stomach, but he shook it away, keeping his eyes on the sight before them. He let go of her hand so she could walk forward.

(He really did like holding her hand, though.)

The village looked different here. It looked bright and happy and sparkling. It looked a lot like _her _village, where people were never still and no one was ever sad, where lights were always lit and sounds were always sounding.

It looked _alive_, and he thought that was when things always did look best.

The lights were shining and colorful and sweet, and they glowed like stars did, only brighter and hotter and more dizzying than he could ever hope to explain.

But then, he didn't have to explain, because he figured she understood. In their heavy silence, she understood completely. And he liked that most.

Because she was laughing. Not in madness and not in happiness, but in something a lot like relief and disbelief. Something like a dispelled fear falling off her shoulders, and she was so very glad it was gone. And all because the paper lanterns children made in their home and strung up at sundown looked better from up high.

All because he had shown her the one little beauty there was in his dreary desert home.

How nice it was to know little things could still make people happy.

He didn't jump this time when she took his hand, and he sighed when her fingers laced with his, and her burning warm skin singed his own, and the breeze that passed between them was soft and light and simple. He was content, for that moment, to know she _didn't _know all he didn't want her to know.

That he had thought of her in ways he shouldn't have. That he had touched himself and imagined she was doing it instead. That he had spent all day wondering how soft her hair really was or how smooth her skin felt beneath her clothes... That he had kept his distance from her as best he could for fear his body would betray him.

That he had fallen in love with her.

He was content, just for right then, to know she didn't know.

But, really, when she turned her head to him, her lips turning up in that slight smile once more, the edges of her wide and green eyes—the type of green that made bitter nostalgia and sweet bliss wash through him—crinkling very slightly, he almost _didn't _feel content.

Because he wanted nothing more than to kiss her.

~~...~~*~~...~~

Fourteen days.

She made sure to find him before sundown, barely untying her hair from her duties and smoothing her hands down her shirt, giving a tired smile before reaching over and taking his hand, fingers clammy and yet somehow warm, and pulling him eagerly through the crowds, past shops and homes and restaurants, waving off his suggestions of dinner and guiding him up toward the cliff, heading up the same trail he'd led her just the day before.

When she let go of his hand, he felt a little colder, moving in closer despite his better judgment and watching her openly fascinated expression as the sky began to darken with hues of purples and pinks and deep, deep oranges. The wind fluttered between them and he half hoped he could pull her close, just so that it wouldn't.

The smile that curves her lips curves his, too.

"Do you ever come up here, just because?" she asked, turning her face toward him.

His breath hitched. Her eyes were brilliant, reflecting the whole sky back to him in their emerald orbs, and he suddenly couldn't breathe.

(He really does just want to kiss her. If only just once. If only just _this _once.)

"Yes," he sighed, lowering his eyes.

(But, then, he could never do that.)

"I would do it every day," she murmured, facing forward again. She held her arms out, as if to embrace the colors, the sky and the village, the sun and the lanterns. "Just to get away from things."

What he wants to say, and what he can't, is that the only time he ever _can _get away, the only time he _feels _free, is with her.

But he could never let her know that.

She was still scared of him, after all.

~~...~~*~~...~~

Thirteen days.

She shows him how to feed birds from the palm of hand—something he never dared to do for fear of their rejection.

(He couldn't take so much of it all the time.)

Twelve days.

The wind is picking up and the sand scratches her too much; she complains often.

(He likes it because she tends to stay near him then, because the sand doesn't touch him as much as it does everyone else.)

Eleven days.

She likes to hold his hand at night as they watch the sunset. Her fingers always curl around his a little tighter when every single lantern is lit up and the stars begin to twinkle.

Ten days.

Tea tastes so much better when someone is beside you, smiling at you, telling you stories and sipping lightly.

Nine days.

~~...~~*~~...~~

And it wasn't supposed to happen, but neither of them did anything to stop it.

They had stayed out a little longer than usual, neither the kindly reminders of their growling stomachs to eat nor the fatigue beginning to wear down their muscles could extract them from the beauty they had found that particular night.

(The stars had looked so spectacular with those purples and pinks and oranges, and those lanterns reflected them so well it was like looking into an ocean; and he had never seen an ocean before.)

The streets had gone quiet and the lanterns' lights had all but faded away, an eerie cold left over that made them the hair at the back of his neck rise and she draw closer to him, gradually, carefully, a slender hand curling around his tightly in her silent fear—although, really there was nothing to fear but the feeling itself.

Courtesy called and it demanded he'd walk her to her apartment (but he couldn't quite leave her alone as it was anyway), so he led her through streets and through alleyways, smiling to himself as she moved in closer with every shadow that spilled across clay pavement, until they were standing before her apartment, going nearly as quiet as the night itself.

"Do you want some tea?" she asked. "Something to eat?"

He only shook his head.

(Even if he liked to eat with her and even if drinking tea felt so much sweeter beside her, he still couldn't stand to be around her for so long.)

Too much perfection for one night.

He turned to leave but her hand snapped out, surprising him again, for the warmth of her fingers and the softness of her skin, and he dared a look back at her—and found her much closer than she should've been.

Her face, right there, so flawed and so human. So imperfect and real. So lovely it hurt him somewhere inside. And her breath whispered across his face. Airy little flower petals and pink drops of nectar, tickling his face and caressing his mouth.

And then he kissed her.

Without meaning to. Without her permission.

But she did nothing to stop it, and he did nothing to correct his mistake.

(How could it be a mistake if it felt so right?)

Too much perfection in one night.

And yet not nearly enough.

~~...~~*~~...~~

Seven days.

She kisses him often.

He kisses her more.

Six days.

Her tongue tastes like honey.

She says his tastes like spice.

Five days.

Her hands pull at his hair—something hot shoots through him.

Her mouth burns him—his ear and his throat and his lips and his face and his jaw—just as his burns hers.

Four days.

(It had to be a dream.)

~~...~~*~~...~~

When he finally told her about his dreams—the ones he has every single morning now, becoming more and more defined and descriptive and realistic it hurt to go to sleep at all—he was draped across her couch, inside of her little apartment, staring up at the ceiling.

(He figured he had nothing to lose in telling her.)

She doesn't laugh at him or squawk in indignation, although he waits for it with a sort of grimace on his face, anticipates it.

It never comes.

She is quiet.

And then, "I have three days left. Let's make the best of it."

(And it really should be a dream. Nothing so cruel could be so real.)

~~...~~*~~...~~

Cruel it was.

Because her skin is fire, like her touch and her kisses and her tongue and her sighs.

She is softness and sweetness and kindness and beauty and it _hurts, _because he just wants to keep her forever, pulling her so close their bodies are one and burying himself deeper within her—his face in her throat and his length in her heat.

She is writhing arches and scalding wetness.

She is blooming petals and pleading gasps.

(Such beauty was not meant to exist.)

Her legs are wrapped around his waist and her hands are stroking his back. She moves in tandem with him, a dance upon the bed, beneath white sheets, the moonlight spilling inside—so do the lanterns and so does the starlight, but she swears, with a smile that looked a lot like a smile, that it looks as wonderful on his skin as it does in the sky.

(He just wants to keep her forever.)

The kisses are fiery and blistering and he wishes they'd last an eternity, but she is coming undone. A string snapping, a coil springing, electricity zapping, and the world being bleached of color, as she tightens around him and her honey is infinite and clear and soaking the bedsheets as he spills and lets himself go.

A growl of her name he wished he had sang.

And then—"...Gaara", she breathes, and her mouth opens in a silent cry, frantic and clawing until she is completely and utterly mellow, sinking into the mattress and an expression of bliss on her face.

And that smile. And his name. And those eyes.

A real smile. His real name. And the remembrance of a childhood he'd wished he'd had.

And she looked so _alive—_and those were the times things did look best.

(She was exquisite.)

~~...~~*~~...~~

One day.

—_It will be perfect._

—_You will be with me._

—_We might make sense._

—_I won't be scared at all anymore._

One day.

She keeps her fingers sewn with his, mumbling poems across his shoulder, and, with the hand that was not tangled in his own, she wrote them down upon his skin, in the ravine of his spine and the hills of his shoulder blades.

One day.

He figured it would've been better if this _hadn't _had happened. Then he wouldn't know how it felt and he wouldn't be so pained to part with it.

It is lethargic, slow and languid movements as he stretches up over her, his smooth skin sliding over her even smoother skin, and then her eyelashes flutter and her mouth opens in the softest of sighs. She is burning and wet and he slips in so very easily, tongue tracing and tasting the pliable flesh of her breast, suckling and nipping until she is whining his name—_my name—_and her hand is twisting into his hair.

—_I just want you to break me_.

Her cries are muffled in his shoulder, and her nails are scraping down his back. _More, _the cries beg, _more_. And he can't possibly give her any more than what he is.

If he did, there would be nothing left to give.

And it scared him.

But there is only _one day left_, and there is no room for hesitancy.

—_I can't._

—_I'm still so scared._

The bed is creaking and the sheets stick to their legs, the sweat dripping down from his hair and rolling down their skin, down between them where they were connected. And he tilts her hips up so that he can see, shining with her honey, red and pink, crimson and cherry blossoms, intermixed, tangled.

And this wasn't supposed to happen, and they were never supposed to do this, and he was never supposed to feel this way, but it was there and she was so _alive _that it hurt him so much.

She looked best when she was alive, more than anything else in the world.

~~...~~X~~...~~

She didn't kiss him when she left, and he didn't want her to.

(It hurt already. Why prolong it?)

Her hand rose, paused, and then settled on his shoulder, a corner of her lips turning up in a half smile. "I wasn't scared," she mumbled.

An ache wrapped about his heart, and he felt his lips quirk in response. "You are very brave."

She dropped her hand, as if she'd been burned, and backed away a few steps.

He didn't follow.

"I'll be back," she said, fists clenching, and that determined gleam flickering behind her emerald eyes. "And I won't be scared anymore."

He wanted to tell her that she never was, that she never truly had been—it had all just been in her mind, after all—but he was a selfish creature, and he wanted her to come back. He really, really did. And so he smiled, just a little, and nodded. "I'll look forward to your next visit. As well the rest of Suna."

She turned a tinge of pink, looking away. Abashed.

"You are an exemplary kunoichi, Ms. Haruno," he murmured, refraining from reaching up and stroking her face, which would be warm from her blush. "You are a pleasure to have and it was an honor having you."

Her smile turned suggestive, if only just a little. "I bet it was."

He reached a hand out for her to shake.

She kissed his cheek instead. "I'll be back," she repeated, firmly.

She turned before he could say anything else, and began her long journey back to her home.

He stayed until she had finally disappeared into the horizon, and still continued to watch until the sun had almost set.

And the stars didn't twinkle quite as brightly and the tea didn't taste quite as sweet, but his smiles looked a lot like smiles and eyes were a little warmer than before.

~~...~~*~~...~~

**A.N.****: This ended a little abruptly, but I hope you liked it.**

**It ends on a good note and a nice promise, and they both grew from it a little.**

**This story is a little more figurative and has little hints here or there you might not have picked up on. I hope you did.**

**Anyway, thanks for reading!**


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